Swordslinger
by GofG
Summary: Gilead has become corrupt. A Slinger, betrayed by Gilead because of his preference of swords over guns, seeks out a way to remove the corruption from the administration.
1. The Red and the White

**Good and Evil**

When he entered the gates of the city, he knew there was going to be trouble, for there was no one there. Not a person in sight, not a single individual, no movement, nothing. In other words, they knew he was coming. He walked forward, noting that this city amazingly still had electricity, as the street lamp was lit a dull orange. He had, of course, already forgotten the name of the city, but things like that aren't important when there is work to do.

He took another step forward, and saw a poster on the ground. The poster depicted a door. The door had the words "The Swordslinger" written in bold on it. The door was standing erect out in the middle of a lake, with pink trees in full bloom about. This poster scared him, as it was obviously not Random, and so he knelt down and picked it up. At the bottom, he noticed, it did say, "Come see the Swordslinger! The Mute Artist! The Lady who casts Two Shadows! The–" A carnival. Oh, but the White is not without a sense of humor.

He folded the poster and put it in his purse, continuing to walk. Shadow enveloped the streets; every alley was black, and the faded lamps did naught but lengthen the shadow of every real thing on the road. Buildings on either side of him loomed upwards, until they became undistinguishable in the night. A gale. An identical poster blew. He caught again the stage names of the performers… "The Man in Black, and most of all, our great ringleader, Ronald F–" He again looked away with unease, realizing he had not moved in the past thirty seconds at least. He took a step forward, then another. From his perspective, the shadows moved, dancing in the night. To his left there was another street, more sinister than the one he was on. He looked for a green sign, and found one. _Random Drive._ Of course. Where was he? Another sign proclaimed, _Randolph Freeman Avenue._ This is the street he was walking on, that he walked on.

Cort had always teased him, for his dislike of guns. They require ammo, they require gunpowder, and they require more maintenance. All for range. He used swords, and steel cuts better than lead, as he always says. Graceful, balanced, and not without stealth, while a gun is loud, bulky. So he picked up a stick one day during training, and found it much more to his liking. Cort thought it would be a phase, but it wasn't, and so Cort yelled, and Cort beat, and Cort screamed, but Cort didn't understand the awesome power of a blade. No one did, not since Arthur Eld melted Excalibur down for use in his gun.

He had arrived at a saloon. A sign claimed, _The Alhambra_. He walked inside. There were poker cards on the table, and the oil lamp was still burning. It had been refilled not a minute ago. A jug of milk hanging on the wall had sprung a leak, a very small one, but none the less, it was depleting rapidly. The leak had to have occurred less than five minutes ago, unless it had grown since it's original spring. He knew that just before he had gotten here, this saloon had been filled to the brim, people laughing, fighting over poker (there was a royal flush on the table, impossible odds), and enjoying each other's company upstairs in the rooms. He was sure if he went up those stairs, there would be candles lighten, beds in the process of being made… He shuddered to think what power could have done this, empty an entire city. But he didn't shudder for long. He walked around the other side of the bar, ignoring the milk dripping on the floor.

He picked up a gun that was lying on the counter, made of… steel. White steel. The purest white he had ever seen. While it could not be Excalibur itself, which was buried with Arthur Eld, it was a damn good replica. It's hard to make a six-shooter out of steel. He checked for ammo; it was missing one bullet. The remaining five were all Crimson, as if painted in blood. This made him shudder again, violently, something he never did. Glancing over at the wine rack, he saw a bottle of Merlot, a rare wine from a distant world. Impossible that a tiny motel like this place could have a bottle of such expensive stuff; only Travelers can get it without the use of a door. He walked to the rack and pulled the bottle off the shelf. Uncorking it, an unmistakable stench rose to his nose. He shuddered again, a third time, and dropped the bottle in disgust. Blood, Crimson in hue, began pouring out of it. When the liquid hit the ground, it seeped through the wooden floor. He lifted the bottle up and let all the blood pour out, when he heard a metallic _tink._ A bullet had fallen out, but it was not red as the others were. He picked it up and danced it along his fingers. It was White, White like he had never seen. He put it in the six-shooter, and span the cylinder, clicking it into place. Maybe most guns are bulky, but… Excalibur certainly wasn't. He slipped it onto his belt, in case of emergency, and walked out of the saloon.

There was a man standing on the street, just out of the beam of a street light. It would be impossible to make out anything more than a silhouette, except that the man was facing toward the saloon. Too late to remain hidden, the man had most definitely already seen him. He was not expecting another person, and as such he was not trying to be silent, hidden. His training was slacking, apparently. The man did not move, and so he walked towards the silhouette.

"Hile, stranger! I assume you have noticed the lack of activity in the town. Do you find it as strange as I do, good man?"

The stranger remained eerily motionless. Walking towards this stoic figure, he again called out, "Good man, why do you remain speechless? If you are dumb, raise a hand, make a motion, anything!" He droned on and on to mask the sound of his sword being drawn from his sheath, which was already quiet enough, but he isn't taking any chances. After looking closely at the silhouette, he realized the man had a slight outline that was red, almost a glow, even though the street light was orange. He concealed his sword against his vest. As both were as black as the surrounding darkness, he was sure the man could not see it. Yet the man spoke out:

"Would you dare draw a weapon against me?"

He waited for the man to continue, but he didn't. "We must be careful in these dark times. I'm sure you realize the same, sir, and were you in my position, you would do something similar, would you not?" He managed to say this calmly, but he was nervous. Very nervous. Not Cort himself could have seen the sword, nor hear it be drawn. Few things were more perceptive than Cort.

"So you would dare, then."

After a moment of thought, he answered, "Yes, I would draw a weapon against a stranger, in a recently-ghosted town. Especially one with a red glow."

"Few are so perceptive as to see it. Few are from Gilead, I suppose."

The man began to walk toward him. "I know why you are here, while you do not."

"That is not true. I am here because I was sent here."

"Ah… but you do not know why you were sent here. Slinger,–" He gasped at the use of this name, as it implied knowledge not only that he was a slinger, but that he was _not_ a gunslinger– "there is much you do not know."

"Then teach me."

"First of all, I did this. To the city. It could be called witchery, yes, but so is your Touch, no? Second, my red _glow_ is caused by that which is Crimson. Third, you were sent here to die. Yes, to die, sent to die by your very own Gilead."

"That's impossible. They would not sacrifice a gunslinger on a whim… That just doesn't happen."

"You aren't a gunslinger. You never were, and that's the problem. Do you know why King Arthur dropped the sword in favor of the gun? No, of course you don't. You, like all gunslingers, are ignorant in the ways of politics, no matter how well versed you are in survival. His followers thought that his sword was too powerful. Much too powerful. It was blessed, you see, by the fourteenth color."

"There is no fourteenth, there are only the Thirteen."

"The reason why there are only thirteen is because the fourteenth was destroyed when it's power was transferred to Excalibur. I'm sure you see why they decided it was too dangerous."

"Well, of course… The power of any color embedded in a weapon would be too awesome a power for any. But the gun he made from the sword would still have the same power, would it not?"

"He didn't wield the gun that had the color in it. He sealed it away, saying that he had wish he had kept the sword, which he believed superior. He had already converted all training from swords to guns, and the first line of Gunslingers was well under way. It was too late to go back. So he hid the gun, and it's location was believed to have died with him. I'm sure you see where this is going."

He looked at the gun. The gun on his belt. The gun made of white steel. He switched his sword to his left hand and took the gun out. Opened the cylinder. The bullet. It was the same color as the steel. The bullet was made of steel… The same material the gun was made out of, with the same texture, the same shade of White. He sheathed his sword and popped the bullet out.

"Yes… You're beginning to understand. The gun is not made of steel, but rather of glass. Wizard's Glass. The Glass of the Fourteenth Color. I have lived in this city for many years, fighting the power of the color… I haven't gotten very far, as you can see. Just five bullets. No, not very far at all. After all… the White is very powerful, more than I."

"What are you implying? Surely not that the White is a part of the Rainbow."

"Indeed, I am. Gilead doesn't know this, of course. They also don't know where Excalibur is. They sent you here because you use the sword, and they believe this is blasphemy. Why else would Eld himself abandon the sword? They sent you here because they knew I was here. They sent you here to be killed by me." The red man began walking towards him. He redrew his sword and walked towards the man, closing the gap. He was not afraid of this man surrounded in Crimson. Then the man pulled out a gun. Oops. He rolled to the left behind a barrel, only as a gunshot echoed in the streets. He dived into a pair of doors next to the water barrel, and another gunshot cracked out. The barrel began to leak. He pulled Excalibur off his belt, expertly. His gun training apparently had not worn off yet. Another gunshot, and a glass window broke. He glanced up. The man was standing outside, about to fire off another shot. He ducked, and felt a bullet go through his hair. He stood up, held the gun up, and shot the man. In a blinding flash of red light, he suddenly felt a bullet shoot into his hand, and back out the other side, putting a clean hole an inch into the webbing of his thumb and index finger. He had a small amount of time to think, "Wait… the bullet went through the gun and then through my hand… why is the gun still operational?" when he shot another shot. Another flash of Crimson light. He moved his hand, and felt a bullet go whizzing by it. Of course. The bullets were red, the man was red. He ducked, opened the cylinder, and spun it until the white bullet was at the top. He stood back up and fired. There was a flash of white light… and the cylinder didn't spin. He fired again, and there was another flash of white light. The man was gone. Vanished out of thin air, apparently, but there was something glowing on the ground. He walked outside and looked at it. Not surprised, he picked the Crimson Wizard's Glass up and put it in his purse.

Opening the cylinder of his gun (with his left hand), the white bullet was still there, still at the top. Astounding. He clicked the cylinder back in place, aimed for the ground, and pulled the trigger. There was quite clearly a dent made in the ground, but no bullet. There was blood though. Oh right. He was bleeding. There was a bullet in his leg, and a bullet had gone straight through his hand. He was slacking that he hadn't taken care of these yet. He tore a piece of cloth off of his shirt and wrapped his leg. He would need some water to wash it out, but he could evidently walk on it, so he did just that. Right out of the gates. He sat down against the wall, and examined his hand. Damn that it would be his right. "At least I jerk off left handed," he said out loud. He stood up.

Noises. Behind him. Turning around, he saw a crowded street, full of people, fully and completely unaware of how close their city had come to utter corruption. He smiled.


	2. The Green

**Intelligence**

The Red and the White were bickering. The White had for some time been protecting him from the Red, he realized. It was obviously a good thing, that he had found them in the order that he had.

He was far from Gilead. Very far from it. He had been following the Path of the Bear for a while, but then turned south. He noticed his compass was slightly off; sometimes due south was two degrees off. No matter, he had his head to rely on. He knew where True North was, and by this he could find south.

The trail he was on (it lacked the majesty of a path and therefore could not be called such) was about three feet wide, not very well made, and perfect for tearing apart shoes. Just a line in the ground with a higher leaves-to-underbrush ratio, really. Darkness enveloped the path all around the clock, as the leaves were dense and the trees tall. As such it was hard to tell how many days had passed, but he believed the number to be twenty-two. He knew exactly where he was, and that was why he was not perfectly sure of the date. He had traveled the same distance along this very path at this very speed before, and it had taken twenty days. The forest may have been expanding. Such things were not unheard of.

His internal clock ringed noon. Time to stop for lunch. He pulled Excalibur off his belt, with his left hand, and halted his breathing. There was motion to his right. He pulled the trigger and in a blinding flash of white (White) light the doe dropped dead. His accuracy was improving.

Like the others, it had no sign that it had been shot. The White bullet had strange properties. It left no trace, and he was still unsure as to exactly how it killed its targets. But it did. It did indeed.

He cleaned the lifeless body and started a fire. Cooking the meat, he recollected on the prior month. A lot had happened, after all. He had gotten his guns (left in Gilead), gone on his first assignment, been betrayed, captured the Red, gained the White… Unfortunately, this turn of events meant that Gilead was corrupt. Almost beyond being saved. Almost. His leg had been bothering him. The wound was not like any wound he'd ever had before. He knew what he needed to do, he just wanted to be sure. If he was wrong… His hand, however, was in perfect condition (well, as perfect as it would have been if the bullet had been normal), probably because the "bullet" had not remained in his body. It was fairing well, however, and he could almost use it again. However, he had already trained his left hand to function well, so he would continue using it until his right was fully healed.

The meat was cooked. While he ate, he stopped blocking out the shouts the Red and White were exchanging. They were now arguing over which of them Ka favored more. That was rather silly, he thought, because everyone knew that Ka was a neutral party. The White seemed to be saying that, since He wasn't evil, he must be good. Ha. As if life was so Red and White. He made a joke. That was a first. The Red was arguing that since Ka had no consideration for the infinite amount of lives he governed, he must be at least partially evil. Well, enough of that. It was obvious they weren't going to get anywhere, so he shut them out again.

When he was done eating, he picked up his purse (the gun and the orb were violently vibrating against each other) and continued on his course towards the Crossroads.

Finally, the leaves above him started to dwindle out, and he got a catch at the open sky. The sun said an hour past noon, and for once, his mind agreed perfectly. He knew the reason: he was on Holy ground. Through the trees, he spied a tower. A tall one, at that. They must have made an addition in the past few years. Though it was green, it still reminded him of the famed Dark Tower. He continued walking. The ground beneath him turned to dirt, then finally sand. Fine sand, too. Easy to walk on. He didn't know it until now, but his leg was crying out for something like this. He rolled up his pants and looked at it. It was becoming infected, there was no doubt about it. He would have removed the bullet by now, but he was afraid as to what would happen. But he knew what would happen. He would pull it out, drop it in the sand, and look back into the wound and it would still be there. There was only one thing that could solve this problem, and he realized that if he didn't do it now, he never would. He took Excalibur out of his purse (it seemed to push itself out, away from the Red) and, without a second thought, aimed it at his leg and pulled the trigger. A flash of white light… and his leg was no longer infected. In fact, it didn't look nearly as deep. The pain that he had been blocking out was no longer there, and there was most certainly not a bullet in his leg. He flipped open the cylinder, and the red bullet was back in the gun. Hum. That worked rather well. He wondered why he was so worried before. Then he wondered what would have happened if he had had a red bullet lodged closer to his brain. Oh. He continued walking towards the tower.

While this may be obvious to most, he found it amazingly easier to walk without a serious injury. He had kept the same pace as before, of course, but it wasn't as straining, and so by the time he reached the tower he was able to slow his breathing down to a normal level (why hadn't he realized how out of breath he was? Was it actually simply caused by the red bullet? A scary thought indeed.) In any case, the front door of the tower had changed. It was no longer made of sheet metal, what felt like tin. It was now made of wood, possibly oak. On the door, about two-thirds up from the bottom, was a plaque made of solid gold. On the plaque, two words. "The Swordslinger." He touched the doorknob. It opened. What he saw through the door was not the guard post he had come to recognize, but instead a lake. He looked down out of the door, and sure enough, the door was floating not five feet above the water. If he stepped out, he was sure he would fall into the water and probably rust his sword, so he took a step back and sat down. Out of his purse came the poster, with the door in the middle of the lake. He opened the door again, while looking at the picture. The picture on the poster. When he opened the door, it came to life. The water started to move, waves, and the pink glistening off the trees. And the door opened. And he was standing in the doorway. He closed the door, and the door closed in the picture, and the waves stopped moving and the trees stopped rustling.

Wow.

Open, close. Open, close. What was this madness, this mischief, that kept him from getting into the tower? He looked back at the poster. The words at the bottom, proclaiming the cast of circus freaks, had changed. They now said, "Hile, Swordslinger. The Pink sends her regards." Oh. The Pink. Well, not just any mischief then, but The Mischief. It's too bad the Pink was a minor color. And it was also too bad the White was a major color. Out came Excalibur. He closed the door and aimed the gun at the poster. At the door in the poster. He pulled the trigger, and then everything when… pink.

When he came to, one hour, twenty-one minutes and thirty-eight seconds had passed. Unless the sun was wrong, which quite plainly could be true, but he didn't think so. He glanced at the door. Ah… It was made of metal. He stood up, grabbed his purse, noted that the poster was gone, and walked up to this new (old) door. He opened it, and was glad to see the guard post where he was first stationed, so long ago. Where he first discovered the Green. He walked in.

The desk was still there, although the guard sleeping in the chair behind it was absent. Well, it wasn't the Harvest Moon yet, so there was little trading going on. Understandable that the guard station wouldn't be manned. He walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair. Everything was just as he remembered it. Nothing had changed. He stood up, and walked back to the entry door. He turned left, facing the wall. He drew a knife walked to the wall. With the knife, he began scratching marks into the wall. Carving, almost.

_The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On The Plain_

The letters carved into the wood began to glow. Glow green. Lines, green lines, began shaping themselves in a rectangle, then again, with intricate patterns along the edges. A small circle halfway down the length of this shape, to the right. The letters carved into the wood had vanished, and in their place:

_The Green_

Finally, the lines slowed and the creation was finished. He touched the doorknob, the small circle, and the door came to life. An actual door. His hand on the doorknob. He turned it. Opened it. Walked through it.

The room he walked into still frightened him, as it had before. In the corner, there was a sort of… chamber, divided into three sections. Each section filled with fluid. In the fluid… a man, a dog, a woman. With wires. Sticking out of their heads. He couldn't bear to look, so he didn't. He walked up to a machine, **the** machine, and thought at it, "Altair 4."

**Altair 4, y/n?**

"Yes."

Here he was. He could hold his breath, of course, but it didn't detract from the eeriness. There was a wrecked vehicle here, a mile in diameter, a perfect disk in shape. He didn't want to know where it came from. He didn't find out. A man walked up to him. The man was quite clearly drunk.

"Well he'o, man. Name's Gardner. Judgin' from the look of ya, you're here for the Green, right? Well I'll go fetch i' for ya."

The man smiled. He was missing all of his teeth. Oh God.

In a moment, the man (no longer drunk, somehow) had a Green orb in his hands. "Ahh… isn't it beautiful? It's been corrupted, of course. As of late, it's been doing more harm than good. Of course, your late is my early, so… Well, I won't bore you. Here you go." He held it out in his hands.

The Swordslinger pulled from his purse Excalibur and shot the orb on the spot. A blinding flash of green light, and…. A woman named Bobbi Anderson accidentally stumbled in the woods. She woke up the Tommyknockers, a friendly race of extraterrestrials by doing so. A man named Jim Gardner was saved by a boy named Jack Sawyer, and continued on to visit his friend, who, while not in danger, was about to discover the cure for cancer. The rest of the town would have similar discoveries. The Tommyknockers shared their secrets with the town, and went on their way.

Gardner was gone. The orb changed from dark green to light green, more emerald in color. The Swordslinger picked up the orb, put it in his purse, and sent a mental message back. "The Tower of the Green."

**Tower of the Green, y/n?**

"Yes."

When he arrived back in Bobbi's shed, it was much different. The entire room glistened with emeralds. It appeared to be coated in emeralds. The computer itself was green. It didn't look as foreboding, either. He heard a whisper from the machine. "So, Dorothy… Green isn't so Wicked after all." Then it died. He turned to the shed doors, unlocked them and stepped out. Oops. He was in Bobbi's yard. He went back in, drew his knife, and wrote: "He Thrusts His Fists Against The Posts And Still Insists He Sees The Ghosts." It took quite a bit longer to write, but in no time he was back in the tower. Back in the road. He stopped at the actual Crossroads, next to the tower, where the six separate roads met, for dinner. Inside his purse, he could sense that the Green, a symbol of misunderstood kindess (among other things) had joined in the debate. He glanced inside. Red was glowing a little dimmer. It had suffered a blow. In an infinite number of worlds (every world but the one where it was necessary for him to survive), Jack Mort died in childbirth.

The Swordslinger felt accomplished as he ate the rest of the deer and moved onwards. Only eleven left.


	3. The Purple

**Lust**

He didn't know where the Purple was, but he knew if he didn't want to upset the balance he would have to get another "bad" color. The effect on the Red was already notable; he could feel it, Touch it. So he searched for the Purple, because he thought he could handle it. He thought.

So onward he went, to where the Purple was last rumored to be. Well, thousands of years had passed, and there was no telling whether it was still there or not. But it was a lead, so to speak, and so he went.

Back up North he went, in fact. Through Shardik's Forest, into the Mohaine Desert. The desert. The desert. The desert. On and on it went. He was following a road, an actual road, this time. Heading north along the road. A smell rose to his nose. Devil grass. As was to be expected. It grew along roads everywhere. Especially stone roads. It usually grows in the cracks between the stones. He wasn't sure who had built this road; no one was. But here he was. Traveling on it. The warm smell of the devil grass, rising up through the air.

The sun started to dim. The actual sun. It was putting off less light. He was confused. Maybe it was his eyes. That was a possibility. Some devilry put on by the smell of the grass. Yes, that was it. His sight grew dim.

And he was sleepy. He'd been traveling much to long, and he needed to stop and rest. He felt like he couldn't walk anymore, but he had too, or else he would miss it. It only came around one time a year. So yes, he was woozy, and he definitely needed a nap or something. His head grew heavy, and he had to stop for the night.

But there wasn't a place to stay. So he kept walking. He would stop when the time was right, when the place was right. There was a speck of purple in the distance. Probably a building. He'd be there in a few hours. So he walked, and the dot slowely grew bigger. Closer and closer. Yes, it was a building. What looked like an inn. There wasn't any inn on this road, not until the Mohaine Desert faded away to the plains. But here it was. Painted purple, nonetheless. He missed the warning. His head was too heavy. The devil grass, for sure. For sure.

As he drew closer, he saw the name of the inn. Alhambra. Of course. If he had been more alert, he would have noticed that it was glowing purple. But he wasn't. So he didn't. He started walking towards the front door.

There she stood in the doorway. If he had been in focus, he would have seen a purple aura around her naked body, but he wasn't, and he didn't. He was too lulled by the beauty of the woman in front of him. Blonde hair (it was actually purple) down to her breasts. The exact same height as him. Smooth legs. She smiled (he saw teeth that weren't there) and held out her hand to him. A mission bell sounded. The ringing of the bell was the last thing he remembered clearly for a very long time.

What he did remember was cloudy. The main thing was, during his stay at the Alhambra, he slept in many different rooms, with many different people. Each room was different except for two things. A purple glow was the first one. The second was the only thing that scared him while he was there; the only negative. Mirrors on the ceiling.

Down in the courtyard, he danced with people. There was champagne, too. He caught that it was pink, but it didn't mean anything to him. Just pink champagne, is all.

There were some other activities he performed that this particular wordslinger will not reveal to you. Suffice to say that he was pushed to his utmost limits of pleasure. And he forgot about Gilead, he forgot about the White and the Red, he forgot his own name. Except during the night.

During the night, he would lie in bed after whatever whore that night brought him had left the room, and he would look up into the mirror and he would fear for his life. He would want to leave. He would dream about leaving. Nineteen days into his stay at the Alhambra, he mustered the willpower needed to get out of bed at this time. He walked, he was walking, he will walk up to the door, and the door was open. Down the stairs. Into the lobby. The woman, in all her majesty and beauty was in this lobby. He saw through her, however. She was an insect. A crawling purple bug. He drew back in disgust. He reached for his sword, and it was there. He was back in his black shirt, black pants, black boots. His sword was on his belt. He drew it, and immediately it changed to purple. A special property of it. It was an heirloom, passed down since the days of the Sword. It was a Chameleon sword. Perfect for stealth. And now it was purple.

He looked around him, and realized that the walls were painted purple. They were glowing purple. It all came to him. He looked at the beast, and it cowered. And in all the rooms above him, everyone woke with a start. And they all came downstairs to the lobby, where they witnessed him stab it with his steely sword. And unlike so many before him, he killed the beast. It gave off a flash of purple.

They burned the inn. He helped do it. Hundreds free from its grasp. In a hotel not unlike the Alhambra, on a different level of the tower, a man named Jack Torrance saw a young beauty for what she really was, and was not tempted, and a boy named Danny and a woman named Wendy lived a much better life.

When the building was burned to the ground, all that remained was an orb, glowing purple. One of the freed men asked him what it was. He didn't answer. He picked it up, put it in his purse, and continued on the path north. The night man shouted after him, "Where're ya' goin'? You can't leave! You can never leave!" He continued to shout when there was a flash of white light. He dropped to the ground.

The others died too, eventually. They were, after all, stranded in the desert. They died of starvation, some of dehydration. They all died happy, however.


	4. The Pink

**Mischief**

He was still in the desert. On and on it went, and he was going through it the long way. He didn't know why. He just was. Northward, on and on. He wasn't even following any sort of path. Just through the desert.

He had long left the road, the stone road. Every day followed a certain pattern. He would get up, he would find a desert animal to cook, he would carry it with him until midday, he would eat it, he would take a single sip of his rapidly depleting water, and he would walk the rest of the day. Occasionally the purple would break free from the White's grip on it and attempt to seduce him, but it would never work again. The Red had all but given up on fighting, and was stuck to trying to recorrupt the Green, which wasn't working.

He wasn't sure why it had been corrupted in the first place. Perhaps, however, the fact that it was corrupted was the trigger that offset the balance of Good and Evil. Perhaps the scholars, the intelligent, in Gilead were the ones so long ago who-

An oasis. This hadn't been here before. There were no oasis's this far north. He couldn't see it clearly; it was maybe two miles off, so he started walking towards it. As he got closer, he saw that the trees were not green. He shuddered in fear, again.

The trees were pink.

Finally he reached them, and when he did he placed his hand on the trunk of one of the nearest trees, and he understood. The tree was giggling, laughing. They were laughing at him. The Pink was laughing at him. And so he retreated his hand and continued walking into the dense oasis.

It got denser and denser, until there was no light overhead. He was reminded of Shardik's forest, except that the color around him was pink instead of green. When the light hit the leaves, it did escape through, but this powerful pink tainted the light. And so the pink light fell onto the ground in strange patterns, and he walked on until he started seeing the brown color of a pond in the distance and so he walked on towards that. Until it came into sight, and then he was scared. Pink blossoming trees all around the lake, small ripples escaping, perhaps emanating, from the center. In the center of the lake there was a wooden door, roughly five feet above the water, marked Sword Slinger. And he shivered.

_Hile, Swordslinger. The Pink sends her regards._

He withdrew the poster from his purse. The waves were alive, the water alive, and the trees quivered in the breeze. At the bottom of the poster, a man was standing next to the lake, gazing at a poster he had just retrieved from his knapsack. Oh hell. He ripped off his mail and waded into the lake, leaving his purse behind him weighting down the poster. He swam until he was almost directly under the door. At a distance it had looked like the wood was brown, and it still looked that way, but it _felt_ pink. And it started to descend down towards him. He waited for it to reach him, treading in the murky brown water, and finally it touched down and halted. He had to kick up with both feet to reach the doorknob, but he unlatched the door before falling, so he opened it and looked through.

There were a field of roses through the doorway, with six paths extending out from the center of the field. In this center, a great Tower looming over the roses. He knew what the field was supposed to be, of course, but this was not that field. This field's roses were too Pink. And of course, the Tower in the center was not right. The Dark Tower was not dark enough. It was light, as if some Pink had been mixed into the paint. And he understood.

The door was the Pink, and it was a damn good thing he hadn't gone inside. He would be trapped in there, observing the world as it was, as it had been, as it will be. Things he didn't want to see; the moment of his betrayal, the moment his mother was murdered, and perhaps the ending of his quest. Others had for certain been trapped inside the Pink; mayhap they were let free. Mayhap they enjoyed it. So he closed the door right as the view flickered over to a bird's eye view (quite literally) of Gilead, except viewed through a Pink lens.

But what to do now? How does he gain the Pink? How does he make it into it's shape, it's form, it's orb? The door was here; perhaps he should destroy it, but he didn't think that would do it. The entire oasis was the Pink, not just the door. So how?

He spent the next hour searching the lake. Diving down into it, feeling around for whatever he could, an orb mayhap. The water was opaque enough that he couldn't see anything, so he eventually gave up. If the answer was in the lake, he would never find it, so he had to assume it wasn't in the lake. Perhaps he should look in the door again. Perhaps the door will have the answer. He did just that; he swam up to the surface and leaped up and opened the door again, and this time it showed his mother on her deathbed, one of the many victims of that year's disease epidemic, telling him that she had hated him all her life, he wasn't meant to exist, and he closed the door. But he felt an odd drawing to reopening it, and he knew that he was coming under the draw of it. So he swam away from the door, back to the shore, and peeled off his wet clothes, opting for the dry set in his purse. There was only one problem.

His purse was gone, along with all of the Colors. All that remained was the poster, lying on the ground. It was unchanged, except that the lake was no longer brown, but pink. He turned around, and sure enough, the lake was pink. A candy pink, perfectly transparent, the entire way through. It was also perfectly still, with no waves at all, and so he could view the bottom of the lake. On the bottom was a sphere that he knew he had to get. So he dropped the poster and waded back into the lake, diving down once it was deep enough, and retrieved what he was now sure was an orb. When he surfaced, he swam back to the shore where he could still see the poster and dropped the orb on the ground. It was unlike the others; it had something in it. He couldn't see it while standing, so he kneeled down and took a closer look.

What he saw was an oasis with pink trees and a pink lake. A young man was standing by the pink lake looking at an orb. And he shivered and dropped the orb and ran. He ran through the trees to where he was sure would be a pink wall, and sure enough, there was a curved pink wall trapping him inside the oasis. His eyes traced upwards, and the wall curved upwards, as if it were an orb. He was inside the pink all along.

He walked slowly back to the orb he had, to the center of the orb he was in, and picked it up. He placed his index finger on the top of the orb, and looked up. And shivered.

There was a giant index finger touching the top of the orb he was in. And he could see above that, far above, so far up, the ceiling of _that_ orb and a finger placed on it. And so he looked down, because that was a frightening sight.

The obvious thing to do would be to break the orb, but he had a feeling it couldn't be done, not with the tools available to him. But if he didn't, he would be trapped here indefinitely. He could shoot it with the White, but that might have unforeseen consequences, like the death of every incarnation of him if he aimed wrong. For if he shot the orb, surely the version of him above him would do the same thing and if anything went wrong he would shoot himself and infinite number of times. But really there would be only one death, because he could feel himself on each of these levels. There was only one version, and this one version was all of the versions at the same time. Still, this was out of the question.

He eventually decided on flinging the orb at the pink orb he was trapped in. Perhaps if every single one of them did this at the same time, it would have some effect. Of course, it is also possible that each of him would fall to their death if the orb broke too high up. So he would have to aim low. And he did just that.

He took the orb to the edge of his own orb and threw it as hard as he could at the corner of the wall where the wall met the sand. There was a huge rumbling and he could see the orb he threw beginning to crack. Sure enough, when he looked up, his own orb was beginning to crack. And then the sound of an infinite number of glass orbs shattering hit him and he screamed from the pain and then the infinite number of screams made him pass out.

When he came to, he was lying in the middle of the desert again. The oasis was gone, but his purse was lying on the ground next to him, its strap caught on his arm. The poster was lying on the other side of him. The lake and the trees were gone; it was only a desert now. The words at the bottom were now: _Hile, Swordslinger. You were too fragile to capture Me and so I have evaded you. Next time you will be trapped for eternity._ He rolled up the poster and placed it in his purse. And he moved on.


	5. The Blue

**Loneliness**

The desert came to an end. North of the desert was the Mohaine Plain. A savannah more than a plain, that stretched for as far as the desert. He was not interested in walking across it, however, as he was the desert. He was only going to walk for an hour through the soggy grass before he was going to see what he was looking for, and he knew it. He had seen it before,

The colors had stopped bickering, and his mind was silent, except for the whispers that came through from the Green. Purposeful things, though random. The Green was not all-knowing, but all-seeing. Intelligence in it's purest form. Logical thinking. But it still had a touch of Grey in it; it had picked up quite a bit of knowledge in it's travels. And one of these snippets was the location of the Blue.

It came to him in a dream, viewed through a green lens, while he was sleeping in the Alhambra. He would continue walking through the desert, winding off of the path. When he came to the plain, he would see something that had not been there before; that was only there sometimes, and sometimes it was not what it appeared to be.

But here it was. A grand pool of water, maybe a few inches deep, that spread for miles. It wasn't a swamp; it didn't have time for the correct plants to grow as it was only in this plane of existence for brief periods at a time. So it remained a pool of clear water.

And he approached it, and he, for the second time, stripped off his clothing and started wading into it. He brought with him only his gun and his sword. One might wonder why he took it all off, if the water was only an inch deep.

He walked for an hour, only his feet underwater, when he came across the underwater chasm he knew he would find. More of a tunnel than a chasm, he supposed, but the Green called it a chasm. The grass cut off to a perfect circle, outlined by white marble, nineteen feet across. The circle continued into an open tunnel, heading straight down. Looking down into the water, his sight reached deep into the pool, hitting the white marble at the bottom. There was a small hole going off to the side, large enough for him to crawl through. And he would have to.

So he dangled his feet down into the pool, sitting on the edge. Would he be able to hold his breath for as long as he needed to? What if he couldn't? He didn't know what lie beyond the small hole, but he knew he would be safe if he could get there.

He dived in after drawing a deep breath. As soon as his ears got beneath the water, he heard the song calling him down. Irresistibly calling him. What a beautiful voice… A sad voice… The voice needed him, was calling for him specifically… If he just went to the bottom and waited, he was sure… who could disobey such need? So he continued swimming, reached the bottom after a full minute of holding his breath, and waited, ignoring the small entrance to the tunnel behind him, glowing fervently. Bubbles escaped from the other side, but he did not see. He was lost in the song.

His vision began to black out as he approached a full minute and a half without oxygen, but still he waited. Surely the singer would come to him. Surely she would not leave him to die here. She would come to him with open arms, and–

A flash of white light. The gun lying next to him on the white marble screamed so loudly in his mind that he almost let his air out, but the blackness enveloping his sight immediately went away. He awoke fully, grabbed the gun and his sword next to it, and dove into the tunnel.

The tunnel was blue marble, red veins crackling throughout the hard rock. He could not see the end, it just faded to blue mist, but the song was much louder. He could hear the words. It did not reach his mind, however, as it had in the pool. The White was fully awakened and countering the power of the song.

The words depressed him nonetheless. They called up images from his childhood, things he had forgotten. The girl Mary who he could never have. His friendless time in under Cort. Later in his training, he had no companions on his assignments. Always so alone. They made him believe he would never know love, never know a father who was proud of him, never know a friend.

"_I… I have to let you go…"_

Of his life after training, aspiring to become a guard for the King and being turned down.

"_I just want you to know…"_

Of Gilead's betrayal, corruption, at the hands of unbalance.

"_You'll always be the one…"_

So alone, all alone, he was. Ka had abandoned him, he was sure.

"_The one I love..."_

The singer wanted him, loved him, if he would just go to her– Another bright flash of white. And so he walked on, careful to not listen to the Song of the Siren. The Song which had drawn sailors, adventurers, pirates, mercenaries, royal guards, merchants, and heroes all to their doom. In order to be completely under it's pull, you must both hear it and feel it. The White was feeling it for him, and he felt that the White was straining under it, but the White could not hear it and so the White was fine. And so he walked on.

He walked for maybe a hundred feet when he reached the blue mist. A hand extended out of the mist, human, female, and he took it and pulled. The hand, not used to having resistance, came out, and a woman fell out of the mist down onto all fours. He recognized the woman as Mary, his childhood love. She looked up at him pleadingly.

"_You'll always be the one…"_

He held his gun out and shot her. A flash of Blue light made him look away, and when he returned his gaze, she was gone. In her place, the Blue orb. He didn't want to pick it up. He knew he would feel the greatest sense of loneliness he had ever felt if he did. But he had to. So he did.

He swam back up, carrying the orb under his left arm with his sheathed sword, carrying his gun in his right hand as he pulled the water. Back onto land. Back to his pile of belongings. All he had left.

And he moved on.


	6. The Grey

Zero is © 2007 Comicality. Vampire Dawn is © 2007 Comicality. Meeting with Zero. Meeting with Knowledge. 

After the hour-long walk back to his belongings, he had exhausted all of his knowledge on the colors and was at a loss for what to do. The Green remained silent, as it had apparently known only of the Blue. So he sat after dressing himself in the wet grass and meditated. This is something he was never very good at, and he quickly fell asleep.

His dreams were tormented by the memory of his father, always hateful of him for being better. Everything his father could do, he could do it at an earlier age. He was better educated, and of course, better trained. He had been accepted as a Gunslinger when his father had not. And so his father was always jealous, always so hateful. He hadn't dreamed in so long, either. The Purple's dreams didn't count, those nightmares were but the feeling of fear. No real images. This, however…

"Get, boy, make me breakfast."

"Father…" He yawned. "It's not yet daybreak…"

"I'm hungry, boy." He felt a hard slap across his face and immediately jolted out of bed. "Ya' need to learn, boy, to do what your elders say!"

"Yes sir…"

The dream shifted, jumping ahead four years; he was thirteen, on his first outing with a girl. Mary. He was trotting on his horse late at night, in one of the parks in Gilead and saw her, walking alone, and offered her a ride. She accepted, and they rode through the park together. That was when he first had an idea of love.

He was sixteen. He and Mary were sitting on a bench in the park and he moved to hold her hand. She moved her hand at the same time and his fell on her breast. That night, he understood love a little more.

He was eighteen. He watched Mary die in his blood-soaked arms. All his friends had drifted away from him. He was alone. And he understood love fully. Love is the most destructive force in existence. It eats friendship. It destroys family. People have died for love, and the blood of their death is on love's hands.

And he woke. He was not eighteen. Mary had long been dead. His clothes were drenched after lying in the grass. The Blue was destroying him, and he didn't know where to go next. It was a mistake to go for the Blue. The White handled the Red, he could naturally handle the Purple, but there was nothing holding the Blue back. And he was especially vulnerable to its power, having led such a life.

He just wouldn't sleep. He had done it before, and he could do it again. But he was still left with the question of what to do, where to go. He decided to go south until he happened upon the Path of the Bear, and follow it outward. That was the plan.

What ended up happening was quite different. He happened upon the door, closed against no wall.

**Zero**

What _Zero _meant, he knew not. The door was maple, and perfectly cut out of the wood so that it was see-through was the word. He reached for the brass handle and a searing pain went through his brain, like a knife stabbed into one ear and out the other. _Bring the Green_. He released the knob and the pain subsided, leaving him with a headache that pulsed with each beat of his heart. The Green called to him, and so he kneeled and took the orb out of his purse. It was blinking, flickering, and it was being drawn toward the door, like metal to a magnet. He held it back, though, stood, and reached again for the doorknob. It opened as soon as he touched it.

What happened next is hard to explain. The door started turning to dust, starting at the doorknob, then expanding outward. The Grey specs of the door fell to the ground at the his feet, though most just fell onto the inside of the hole that was forming in the door. Finally, the wave of disintegration reached _Zero_, but instead of just continuing on, the letters formed with the wave. They looked coated in grey paint, and they fell to the ground as soon as they were formed, but there they were, lying on the ground in a pile of dust. He gazed over the letters, and understood what I cannot. He understood because he held the Green in his arm, but though I know what happened I do not know it's meaning. What I do know is that when he gazed upon those letters, _Z e r o,_ lying on the ground, the Z rotated slightly, he collapsed into unconsciousness and died. It was necessary for him to do so, because he was late in coming and the person he was to meet had passed on, if that is an appropriate word for what Vampires do when they cease to exist.

The next moment when he was able to think, to reason, he was standing naked on a beach. All his possessions were in his purse, dropped on the sand. To his right was the ocean, the sun setting. The clouds remained grey. To his left was a cliff, going straight up into the pink clouds. But he saw through that. This world was thin. Transparent. It was a two dimensional shape, lying on the floor of a room in the tower. The room that it was in was empty. Purely empty, free of everything. Ka did not penetrate this room. It was only the beach, and the emptiness. Except that he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

"Salutations, Swordslinger," said the Vampire. His canines were elongated. "You are looking fine, considering. My name is Zero. This is my domain. You already know why you are here. You are here because you seek the colors. You already have the Green." His eyes flickered, changing from their stoic grey to emerald Green, then back. "I wish it. I long for it. I have lived too long without it. Give it to me."

So he retrieved it from his purse and handed it to Zero, who moaned ecstatically when it touched his hand. His eyes began glowing, tears forming.

"I understand… I understand why Comicality was so set on Vampire Dawn. It all just fits together, like pieces of a puzzle. I'm sorry; I'm ahead of myself. You know of the Tower, of course. Of what it means. Of what it is." He nodded, and so Zero continued. "Vampire Dawn is a holy vampiric ritual. Comicality, the leader of those currently in Chicago, is currently seeking it. I knew of it, but I did not understand it to this moment. Similarly, you understand the Tower to the extent that any mortal can, but you don't know anything of it.

The only way for Vampire Dawn to be achieved now is for Justin to complete his own maturity and begin the journey. It isn't going well, however. Interference from the Pink. The Red up until a short time ago, but…" Zero eyed the purse. "I believe you have the Red under control for now.

You want to know what Vampire Dawn is. I can tell. Imagine, you are standing on a beach. A line is extended in front of you and behind you, indefinitely." As he spoke, a grey line appeared, directly going through the center of his head. "A second line, to your right and left." It happened, going straight through the transparent cliff, and he could see it extending past his sight. "More. Up and down." They appeared. "Now, an infinite number. Extending in an infinite number of directions." They also appeared. Infinitely small, just existing without any width or height, yet they blotted out his entire field of vision. But he listened on.

"Each line is a path, good sir. A path you can take. Some paths are similar, but no two are alike. There is the path Gilead wants you to take." All the lines vanished, except for one, going off into the sky at an angle. "Then, there are some paths Gilead allows, because they are similar to the original path." A portion of the sky, rather small, was blotted out.

"And then, there is the path you took." A single line, going straight up. "This doesn't matter, of course. It's just an example to get you to understand. The point is that, even with infinite lines extending in each direction, if you get far enough away from the center, the lines begin to separate. Space forms in between them. If you go far enough on one path, you can't even see any of the other paths.

Some paths are shorter than others. Most end in death. Some go on forever.

But what if you are to be God? Where does God stand? All knowing, is he not? Where stands Ka? Gan? Where do you have to stand to see all the paths? Answer!"

Understanding dawned on him. "You will… you will have to be standing in the center. You will have had to have gone in a circle."

"Ahh, you understood that much quicker than Justin did. He is a child, though. Yes, a circle. Everything is a circle. Each cycle, a new ender. A new finisher. I cannot see if Justin is to be the finisher, or if you are to be. That is not within my power. I believe, however, that you are. Your interest is not in completing the cycle. Your interest is in altering your fate. Saving Gilead from corruption, maybe. This can be done with the Colors, among other ways. Finding the Tower itself and going to the top level, and finding the correct door. On a separate level of the Tower, you need only find the talismanic representation of the Tower. Achieving a state of mind so perfect, so pure, that Ka himself takes interest in your existence, is another way. This is what I have done. I have spent thousands of years meditating, through several different lives. Absorbing the thoughts of those around me. Ka gave me what I wanted. The Grey, and a continued cycle.

I digress. You must collect the remaining colors, then come back to me. Only then will I return your Green and part with the Grey. Only at the very end. Go now, Slinger."

He woke, resurrected from death by an immortal living high in the Tower. He pondered Zero's words for a time before picking up his purse. He determined that he should continue on his route. He was no philosopher.

So he moved on.


	7. Zero's Tale

Zero watched him disappear, back to Mid-world. He drew his attention back to the Green, pulsating in his hand. Oh, that awesome word, that terrible word. He was beginning to understand truly what it meant. The word he had sought for all of his life. Ken. Do ya kennit?

He did. He kennet everything. The Grey had given him the knowledge, and now he could ken all that knowledge. All of everything.

There were thankyas to be given. He turned and went to his hut, up by the cliff. Though it wasn't quite his, not anymore. His guest had taken control, and he didn't mind, do ya kennit? His guest had gotten him the Green. That's all that matters; his own personal quest was over. Ka had brought him to this man, this man who promised him the world, nay, the universe, and then delivered. Do you **kennit?** **Do you kennit?** He did.

"Sai', I have the green. I cannot express my thanks enough... Thankya sai', long days and pleasant nights, do ya."

A slightly high-pitched voice emitted from the hut as he approached; a voice any Constant Reader would recognize instantly, for the Constant Reader has heard it many times before. "No, thank you. You have taken the Green from the Swordslinger, and kept the Grey safe from his seeking hands. Without them, he cannot achieve his goal, say thankya. He cannot return to this land, this clearing at the end of the path, without my help again. Not even Gan could send him here, not without forcing him to stay. He might know it as the clearing as I do, your Justin might have learned it as the Elysian Fields. But you know this, already. I can see it in your eyes." He stepped out of the hut as he spoke. "What shall you do with your newfound understanding? I would speak to you da-dihn. Ka-tat. Bind yourself with Ka, and meditate on your newfound wisdom. Do ya kennit?" He did kennit, and he nodded. "I personally am going to take a walk. Your hut might be sufficient for you, who so often sit still all day, but I desire some exercise a'fore my muscles deteriorate."

He entered the hut and sat on the rug, watching his guest leave. And he reflected.

He reflected on finding Comicality, breaker of Breakers, that immortal. He reflected on meeting Justin, the most powerful vampire– nay, being– he had ever met. And he knew, Comicality would _**facilitate**_ him. Bring him together, focus his mind, ka-tat, he kennet. He reflected on his meeting with the Swordslinger, that great man, and knowing in his heart that the Swordslinger would eventually win out. He did not share this with his guest; his guest would not be happy. But at least he understood why, now, why the man would succeed. He kennit.

He kennet why the beings in Todash Darkness so lusted for light, yet hated it so. He understood their pain, their pleasure, their torture. He kennet why **Black Thirteen**, so malicious in its ways, targeted certain individuals and drove them to insanity. He truly understood it. He thought back, and when his brain touched the subject that he knew was the Dark Tower, he stopped. For he knew, if he truly understood the Dark Tower, Gan, Ka, something would happen.

Something bad.

So he didn't. Instead he gazed forward, to the future. He saw the final Gunslinger of Old Gilead reach the Tower for the infinith time and reach the top with his true son, ending the Third Cycle. He saw the Man Jesus crucified on the True Cross, ending the Second Cycle. He saw the beginning, when all was Todash and all that existed were the Guardians and their Ka-tet. He saw the alien race, their abandoning of the Green for the Grey, their storing of the Green on a planet existing outside of time, but not outside Ka. And he understood why they did that. They did not need the understanding, they only needed the technology.

And he kennit. Do ya kennit?

He watched the Swordslinger walk through the marsh for a while, in his mind. For he saw it at all angles, in order, because he knew what it would look like from every angle. Because he harnessed what he would come to call the Library. The awesome power of the combination of the Green and the Grey. And he slept.

When he woke, his guest had returned. He looked rested, and very happy.

"I must be getting on. I hope you understand, and your hospitality was most appreciated, say thankya. Unfortunately, I must move on. The Swordslinger, after all..."

"Aye... I understand, good sir." He chuckled. "I do... I understand everything now. Goodbye, friend."

The Pink Jester smiled, nodded, and dissapeared.


	8. The Road to Moscow

**Road to Moscow**

Walking through the endless marsh, he pondered how long he could go on, eating only the tiny minnows he was able to catch. Probably forever, but he began to long for something more sustaining. They were squirmy, slimy. Most of them were bone. He had no fire to cook them; he was forced to eat them cold. A week, maybe, he could _enjoy _this. At least stand it. But on the twentieth day he began lusting for food. Meat, fowl, even a little cider. This feeling of hunger was something he was not acquainted with; almost never before had he truly felt that he needed something. Just the sword on his back and a gunna to carry his possessions, what few he had. It was very unusual for him to want more than that. To lust for more than that.

He knew that it wasn't his fault.

The loss of the Green meant that of the great powers he possessed, there were more Red colors than White colors. What did he have, after all? The White, the Purple, the Red, the Blue. The White's power was beginning to diminish. It was handling the Red, even the Blue. But the Purple was having an effect on him. Causing him to lust for food. And how far would it go? It would find cracks in the White's wall and slip through to the Swordslinger. Eventually he would find himself wishing for a woman, a home. Perhaps one day he would awake and find himself lusting for death. He had to find protection.

He needed another White color. There were quite a few left. The Orange would probably be the easiest; it was rumored to be in Lud. Lud meant going all the way East, to the ocean. So that is where he was headed.

Because he was south of the Mohaine Desert, it would be slightly easier. He had water, though it was dirty, and he had food, though it was slimy. The temperature was not bad; he was comfortable. If he could just drive away the maddening desire, he could survive. Do ya kennit?

But the marsh stretched for miles. Hundreds of miles. No change; day after day he walked, for four days, when he saw a black speck on the horizon. He altered his course slightly and walked toward it; it was, surprisingly, not on the Path of the Beam. As he drew near it, he decided it was a building. A hut of some sort. One room, on stilts to keep the cherrywood that it was made of out of the water. Though it lay miles away, he still grew closer to it, and every once in a while, he would see another black speck step away from the hut, and he could feel a pair of eyes, watching him.

On the third of such events, the black dot, rather than go back inside after watching him for a minute or so, started moving toward him. He was close enough now to know for sure it was a man. The man was, however, dressed in Red. And as he neared him, he saw the man wore a Red uniform.

Finally he was within shouting distance. The man called out in a language that he did not understand, then another language, and then finally a "Hey there!" The Slinger raised his hand back in response.

"Come! Come! My dwelling may not be the best, comrad, but you will find shelter here."

He found himself, a few minutes later, sitting down on a chair in the small hut of the man dressed in a Red uniform, decorated with various metal objects. They all glowed various colors.

"What sort of being are you, dressed in Red but kindly to strangers?"

"I am a being, that's for sure. But you look starved; have something to eat." With this and a wave of his hand, a plate appeared with a ham on it, fully cooked.

The Slinger looked skeptically at the ham. "I could eat, but forgive me in that I do not trust you to feed me that which will not kill me. So I ask again; what or who are you?"

The man frowned. "I am one of the Manni, though I have not called myself that for quite a long time. I do not follow the practices anymore. However, one with one tenth the observation as I could tell that you carry great power with you. Eat up, I'll tell you my story.

"I was born long ago in a small village in the Calla. I was trained as a sorcerer of sorts, but I wanted to learn more than anything. In my early youth, I studied mostly about the happenings of other worlds, and how they were parallel to this world. I learned quite a bit, and began to theorize on my own.

"I found that there were a few worlds that were special; different from others. In these worlds, time had special properties, along with altered physics. Each of these worlds also had a special representation of the Tower. The first of these worlds that I found was our own; in our own world, the representation of the Tower is the Dark Tower itself. Time has no meaning in our world; it flows in as many directions as the wind blows. The second world that I discovered I have named the Foundation Key. It is, should you look at all the worlds like a Tower themselves, the bottom floor of the Tower. The different forces are represented there very primitively. Almost like different color dyes in a pool of water. There is no life here; it's a void, except for an transparent orb in the center of the world. In it, there is no time; all instants happen at exactly the same time, and therefore have already happened.

"Then there is the world that I became fascinated with. I named it the Keystone Earth, after the name of the land they inhabit. During times of great crisis in the world, time takes on different properties than other times. One such time, I was obsessed with. It was called the Second World War. There were two sides that many of the powerful empires of that time took: the Axis and the Allies.

"Oddly enough, the Red and the White were in the same alliance. The Red was represented by the Soviet Union, while the White by the United States. I became so obsessed with this astounding alliance that I desired to witness the war firsthand. So I did what no other mortal has done before.

"I ripped open a hole between our world and Keystone Earth."

" There was only one opportunity for me, and that was when the Second World War actually happened. Because it was one of the most important events in Keystone Earth history, it could only happen once. The door that I created with my own hands opened into a training facility for the Soviet Union.

"And I joined with them. I fought with them. I came to understand something about the Balance. But I will finish my story another time... You are obviously weary, having not slept for the past week, and obviously hungry, having eaten next to nothing the past week. Stay and have food. You can sleep inside; I will bear the load of the Colors for you tonight. Leave them outside with me."

The Slinger agreed, and as the sun set outside, he was almost asleep. Outside, he heard his host strumming on a guitar. He listened peacefully to him singing as he finally fell asleep.

_And now that I ever_

_Was able to see_

_The fire in the air, glowing Red_

_Silhouetting the snow on the breeze_

_In the footsteps of Napoleon, the shadow figures staggered through the Winter_

_Falling back before the gates of Moscow, standing at the wings like an avenger_

_and far away behind their lines the partisans are stirring in the forest_

_Coming unexpectedly upon their outposts growing like a promise_

_You'll never know, you'll never know which way to turn_

_which way to look_

_You'll never see us_

_As we're stealing through the blackness of the night_

_You'll never know_

_You'll never hear us_

_And the evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming_

_The morning road leads to Stalin-grad and the sky is softly humming..._

His sleep was the deepest he'd had in quite a while. He dreamt of distant lands; lands far away, covered in ice. He dreamed of the Winter, and of monstrous vehicles from long ago, as large as a building sure, set aflame, flickering their souls to the wind. He dreamed of the Red.

_And now that I ever_

_Was able to see_

_The eyes of the city are opening_

_Now it's the end of the dream_

_I'm coming home, I'm coming home_

_Now you can taste it in the wind_

_The war is over_

_And I listen to the clicking of the train wheels_

_as we roll across the border_

_And now they ask me of the time_

_that I was brought behind the lines_

_and taken prisoner_

_They only held me for a day; a lucky break I sing_

_They turn and listen closer_

_I'll never know_

_I'll never know why I was taken from the line of all the others_

_To board a special train and journey deep into the heart of Holy Russia_

_And it's cold and damp in the chosen camp_

_and the air is still and sullen_

_And the pale sun of october whispers_

_the snow will be soon become_

_And I wonder when I'll be home again_

_And the morning answers_

_Never_

_And the evening sides and the steely Russian skies go on_

_Forever..._

He woke to gunfire, and a thump. He looked into the entrance of the hut while reaching for his sword, and saw his host lying there, face down, blood pouring from his skull. And beyond the corpse was a man, holding in his hands two guns. Two guns with Sandalwood grips. Trained directly onto him.

There was no escape. The White was lying with the corpse, along with all the other Colors, and was unusable All he had was his sword, which would not defend him.

"Hile, Gunslinger." He spoke sharply as he stood up. "What brings you to the humble abode of my late friend here?" He left his hand on the sword sheathed behind his back, ready to draw at a moment's notice.

"I've been sent to bring you in. You abandoned your mission, which was to report on the activity of the Red in the town of Shaw and then return back. Ordinarily we would just trust your judgement, but being that it is you aren't the typical Gunslinger we don't. Come quietly and cleanly and I get the money for bringing you in alive. But I think we both know that won't happen."

With that he smiled and pulled the triggers of both of his guns. But the Swordslinger was ready and rolled to the left, drawing his sword. Suddenly he had a half-inch of wood in-between him and the Gunslinger, and he used it to his advantage. He crawled forward to the corpse and grabbed the White with his operational left hand. His entire arm was in view of the outside during this, and it was at this moment that his training took effect.

His vision tunneled. and time slowed to a stop. He watched clearly as the bullet entered his arm, but he felt no pain. He immediately rotated his hand around the gun, pointed it outside, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. A misfire, surely. He pulled it again.

Nothing happened again.

The third time he pulled the trigger, a searing pain shot through his mind, and he spoke outloud, very calmly, "I will not fire on the line of Eld."

Oh fuck. He moved his thumb to the barrel and rotated it. A Red bullet was now at the top, in the barrel, and he fired again. There was a blinding flash of Red light, and then a thump outside.

And he knew the White would never fire for him again.

He looked at the sword lying on the ground, and was not surprised when he saw the entire sword had turned Red, from hilt to tip.

He cried.


End file.
